


I'd fix you but I don't know just how you're broken

by Legs (InsanityRule)



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Future Fic, M/M, Memory Issues, Psychological Trauma, Some depictions of violence, chronic conditions, post thaw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-31 03:12:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12123279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsanityRule/pseuds/Legs
Summary: Not all injuries are on the surface, and time doesn't heal all wounds.





	I'd fix you but I don't know just how you're broken

Oswald reclines as far as he’s able in the stiff backed chair in his office at the Lounge and regards Firefly and Freeze with equal levels of irritation and impatience. “Well?”

“Shipments are delayed indefinitely,” Freeze tells him calmly, and Oswald’s eyebrow twitches.

“That's all you have to say on the matter? 'Shipments are delayed indefinitely’? You do realize that when  _ my  _ livelihood is threatened there's a trickle down effect that threatens  _ your  _ livelihoods as well? That maybe the two of you should take a bit more initiative and actually find solutions to our new little distribution problem instead of standing here, shrugging and making  _ that face _ ,” he says this to Freeze in particular, and his unbothered blank expression. “Believe it or not I'd like to maintain my status here in Gotham, and,” he pauses as a few timid knocks interrupt his tirade, and he grumbles, “I  _ told  _ Zsasz this is an  _ important  _ meeting- well?” He raises his voice to the interrupter beyond his door. “Don't just stand out there like a moron! Get in here!” The door opens, just as timidly as the knock, and it isn't Zsasz trying to eavesdrop but Ed, and he's shaking like a leaf just beyond the threshold of Oswald's office. “Ah, it's you.”

“Mr. Cobblepot,” he bows his head slightly, showing Oswald plenty of respect as he addresses him in his office. “I, well there's-” he stutters to a stop and Oswald watches as Ed's jaw locks up a bit and he has to rub at his cheek to get it moving again, “sorry, there's-”

“I'm going to have to ask you to get to the  _ point _ , because if you didn't notice, Ed, I'm terribly busy.” And  _ in a meeting _ , but Ed's gaze hasn't left the floor and he, quite possibly, hasn't registered anyone but Oswald in his peripheral vision.

“I'm feeling cold,” he says in a hushed tone. “You-” he locks up again and grimaces, “you said to say so-”

“I assume you took your medicine this morning,” Oswald interrupts.

“Of course,” Ed starts to get a defiant, willful look in his eye, but it fades behind a full body shiver and an unsettling popping sound from Ed's jaw.

“Well then I don’t know what you expect me to do.” Oswald notes the way Ed’s shoulders droop, and the way they still quiver from his supposed chills despite the warm air in Oswald’s office. “Perhaps a thicker coat next time? You are working inside the  _ Iceberg  _ Lounge.”

“You mixed it thoroughly?” Freeze asks Ed, finally showing some actual concern for something, although Oswald would certainly prefer if he could manage to show the same level of care for his  _ work _ .

“He isn’t a  _ simpleton _ ,” Oswald sneers. “If you've made a bad batch just admit it now instead of drawing this out.”

Freeze tightens his grip on the front of his gun, eyes narrowing as he sizes Oswald up. “I don't hand out meds untested,” he sneers right back, and to Ed in a softer tone he assures him, “I rigorously test everything first.”

“If,” Ed croaks and clacks his teeth together a bit too hard, “ah, there's always the possibility of,” another pause, and this time his eyes squeeze shut from the strain, “increased tolerances,” he finally finishes.

“It's not impossible,” Freeze says with a shrug.

“If he needs help I can  _ warm  _ him up,” Firefly smirks and waves the nozzle of her flamethrower around, finger uncomfortably close to the trigger.

“Enough,” Oswald slams his hands on his desk and stands. “We're all too busy for this. You're a problem solver,” he tells Ed, “so go  _ solve  _ this on your own. If you're lacking things to do later you can always see if there's any maintenance required in the boiler room. That should warm you up enough.”

“Right,” Ed sucks his head and tugs at the collar of his shirt. “My apologies, Mr. Cobblepot, for-” he locks up, effectively drawing this out when it's already gone on far too long.

“Go,” he says, and Ed scurries away, leaving the door slightly ajar. “Firefly, if you'd be so kind, go do your  _ job _ and get my supply lines mobile again. Take as many men as you need. Victor, I need to have a word with you.”

“Oh,” Firefly starts to singsong. Somehow Victor conveys a strong eye roll while still wearing goggles.

“Stop it,” Oswald snaps. “Now  _ go. _ ”

They both remain silent until Firefly is gone from the office, and Oswald lets out a long, low breath. “You told me the medication would  _ help _ him. That any effects he was suffering from post thaw were  _ temporary _ . Does  _ that  _ look temporary?”

Victor sets aside his weapon on a nearby table and lifts his red goggles off his eyes. He's sending an awful lot of unwanted sympathy Oswald’s way, and it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. “It should have been.”

“ _ Should  _ have? This was supposed to be a  _ safe _ alternative.”

“I've frozen  _ hundreds  _ of people with the same formula. Recovery periods are never more than a few days.”

“It's been _ two months. _ He's only recovered a _ portion _ of his memories, and in case you don't really remember the lockjaw is most a definitely  _ post freeze _ ailment.” Oswald closes his eyes and breathes, and when he opens them again Freeze is sending more concerned looks his way. “What.”

“I have a theory or two,” he starts cautiously. “If the medication isn't helping keep his core warm the feeling might have a psychosomatic root cause.”

Oswald scoffs. “He isn’t  _ crazy _ .”

Victor gives him a long, hard look, and Oswald glares right back, daring him to claim otherwise. Eventually Victor looks away, defeated, and Oswald tugs down on the lapels of his suit coat, smirking. Victor must catch the motion in his peripheral vision because he rolls his eyes. “Fine, but he  _ is  _ traumatized. And a psychosomatic disorder can’t be fixed with medication.”

Oswald’s hands drop to his sides and he flexes the fingers of his right hand while he reaches for his cane with his left. “And how exactly  _ is  _ it fixed?”

“Therapy,” Victor says, and Oswald sputters out a single bark of laughter. “It isn’t a joke.”

“It is, actually. The notion at least is rather humorous.” Oswald’s smirk slips away and he clutches his cane a bit tighter. “So you’re telling me there’s no real way to fix this?”

“No.”

Oswald holds up his hand. “I know what you  _ said _ , but you of all people must know what a futile effort that would be in this city.” Victor shrugs one shoulder. “How about you propose something actually available to me, hm?”

“Don’t be such an asshole,” Victor says, and Oswald sputters. He searches his desk for something sturdy to send flying at Victor’s head, but by the time he settles on a solid, stone paperweight Victor is already on his way out the open office door. Oswald readies his arm to throw it anyway, but he sighs and lets it fall out of his hand, uncaring when it makes a small crack in the tile upon impact.

-

Oswald pulls a ring of keys from his breast pocket and uses a large, grimy key to unlock the heavy metal door separating him from Ed’s makeshift, definitely not up to code medical room. Oswald is certain a supply closet with a gurney and some cabinets can never truly be called a medical room, but for less than legally obtained injuries it's better than nothing. Inside he finds Ed dressed in a pair of long rubber gloves and an apron, standing over one of Oswald’s newer recruits who he’s either never been introduced to or who was bland enough to slip out of his memory almost immediately. There’s a nasty gash on the man’s right shoulder and Ed is breathing erratically while he hovers near the injury and stares down at his shaking hands. His lips are moving, and while he’s making no sound even Oswald can see the desperate way he’s pleading with himself while remaining under the intense scrutiny of his current patient.

“Couldn’t spring for a jacket?” Oswald asks the thug, but Ed is the one to startle, and he shakes his head. “I distinctly remember telling my lieutenants that any and most importantly  _ all  _ foot soldiers are to be properly protected, and that includes a  _ jacket _ . Preferably leather. I’m sure Ed can tell you why.”

“They,” he freezes up almost immediately and clasps his hands together.

“Precisely,” Oswald beams at Ed despite his non-answer and the dull confusion on the thug’s face. “Because anyone with  _ any  _ street smarts can tell you that the easiest way to avoid a knife wound is to  _ cover your damn limbs _ .” He glares at the man and puts a hand on Ed’s back, keeping it firm and steady in the center of his ribs. “Leather is thick, and it does what Ed?”

“Deflects,” he answers, short and simple. He looks to Oswald, still a bit unsure, but Oswald nods in agreement.

“It  _ deflects  _ the blade, making this wound,” he resists the call to jam a finger or two into the wound with an aborted lunge, turning it into a flourish of his hand, “much less severe. I assume you were planning on using stitches?”

“It's standard pro-” Ed huffs and clamps his mouth shut, and a full body shiver overtakes him for a moment before he settles enough to finish his thought. “Procedure. The wound is-is deep.”

“I see. Tell me, what happens if I suggest you use a different method? Will he bleed out on the floor? Become unable to use his limb? Don't try to spare me, I'm sure I can take it.”

“Hey, what're-” Oswald holds up a hand, effectively silencing the thug and he turns to give Ed his full attention.

“He'll have a,” he makes a wiggling gesture with his finger, searching, and he snaps when he's managed to recall the word, “scar. Maybe some-some tightness around his-”

“Arm, well, I suppose we have no other choice.” Oswald smiles deprecatingly at the man and he grabs a bottle of hydrogen peroxide from the small lab tray beside the gurney. He rests his cane against the wall long enough to uncap the bottle and dump a hearty amount of the liquid onto the man's arm, and he howls when it makes contact with the raw edges of his wound. “That should clean out anything nasty you managed to get in there. Let's just forgo stitches on this one as a gentle reminder. Ed, you may finish up.”

“Keep the wound,” Ed shakes his head and stops by bothering with words; he covers the wound with some gauze and medical tape while doing an admirable job of ignoring the swearing and general ire the man is spitting at Oswald.

“Now, isn't that better?” Oswald asks. The man insults Oswald, something about his hair or maybe his club, he can't be bothered to register the words, but it's bad business to keep such negativity in his ranks. “Screw it,” Oswald sighs. He pulls out a small pistol and fires it once, dropping the nameless goon to the floor, where he lies in a lifeless heap. “Now,” he turns Ed away from the dead man and slips his gun back into his pocket and trading it for his keys, this time removing a single, small, golden key and handing it over. “Go up to the penthouse. Take a long, hot shower. Not warm, hot. Although certainly not above what's humanly comfortable.” Ed struggles with his gloves and Oswald sets the key onto the tray in order to help pull Ed's hands free of the latex. “I need to take a lap around the Lounge, but I'll be upstairs once I'm done.”

Ed nods and flexes his fingers once they're freed from the gloves. He reaches for the key but hesitates, taking a moment to reach out for Oswald’s cane and tipping it into his waiting hand. He clutches the key tightly and sighs with relief. “Thank y-” he clenches up a bit and cracks his neck with a quick tip to the side. “You.”

“Make yourself comfortable,” Oswald reiterates, and he ushers Ed out of the medical room. He’ll need to remember to send someone in from clean up detail, but unless Firefly gets a bit too enthusiastic with her duties Oswald doesn’t expect anymore injuries to come their way.

He makes a point of finding Freeze on the Lounge floor before making his way upstairs. It’s impossible to get him to mingle with the regular crowd, but Oswald can’t deny how quickly a blast from his freeze gun can dispel any potential riots before they can fully form. Oswald finds him in his usual corner, tucked away in one of the quieter nooks near the main entrance and staring out at the main floor with a bored expression on his face. He spares Oswald the barest of glances as he approaches and tips his head slightly. “Boss.”

“Victor.” No sense antagonizing him when Firefly will do plenty of that once she returns. “You’re on call for any injuries tonight.”

“You sent Firefly out to deal with the delivery problem.”

“Which is why I’m telling you this now rather than the moment we have a dozen or so injured goons coming through our doors.” Freeze releases a long, frustrated sigh, but he nods in agreement. “Good. I will be upstairs, and I am not to be disturbed.”

“Enjoy your date night,” Freeze calls after him, and Oswald pauses his retreat long enough to scoff, but he also doesn’t bother to correct him.

-

It certainly isn’t a mansion, but there’s no denying the sheer amount of luxury fixtures and items Oswald has purchased for the penthouse above the Lounge. He follows the sound of running water through the large main room and up the floating stairs leading to the master bedroom. He moves past the bedroom and through the walk-in closet leading to the attached bathroom. Inside the closet he finds Ed’s clothing in a wrinkled pile just outside the bathroom and a folded, freshly laundered set of flannel pants and shirt on top of the hamper.

He has no way of knowing just how long this could take, so Oswald exits the bedroom entirely and goes into his private study. He deposits his cane in the ornate holder by the door and makes his way over to his wet bar to pour himself a small glass of brandy.

And this is where Ed finds him, hand still swirling the last few sips of his brandy around the glass while he looks out the large east facing windows at the evening sky. Ed coughs politely to get his attention, drawing Oswald’s gaze away from the streets below and over to him. 

Ed’s hair always gets this fluffy, almost curly quality after he bathes, and the heat from the water has pinked up his cheeks and neck. There’s the slightest hint of a tremble along his jaw, but the shower succeeded in soothing away the tension in his shoulders.

“Better?” Oswald asks.

Ed holds his hands out in the space between them and Oswald watches for the telltale tremor, but it’s almost nonexistent. There’s the barest hint of a shake along his fingers; it’s more indicative of Ed’s blood sugar being low than a sign he’s still feeling chilled. When he looks up from Ed’s hands there’s the slightest of upturns at the corners of Ed’s mouth. “Much,” he says, answering Oswald’s inquiry. “I used it,” he huffs, “all. The hot water.”

“Fine.” Irksome, but not terribly. Certainly worth the mild inconvenience. “I suggest you turn in early. Don’t wait up. I have a few personal matters to attend to before I can retire for the night.”

Ed’s disappointment is instantaneous. Oswald throws back the rest of his brandy and watches the way his distorted form visibly droops through the curve at the bottom of the glass. By the time Oswald’s turned away to set his glass down on a coaster Ed’s retreated from the study without protest.

Oswald huffs with irritation and moves on to his desk. He has a large stack of personal mail he’s been neglecting, items deemed less important by Ed during these trying times. There’s also a hefty stack of distribution proposals he’s been putting off, considering his empire’s current inability to follow through on the deliveries they already  _ have _ , let alone another dozen or so now in his hand. He adds them to the pile with his mail along with the morning paper and holds the bundle of papers against his chest as he uses his free hand to navigate his way out of his study and to the bedroom.

As expected, Ed is pouting, but he’s at least doing it in the warmth and comfort of their king sized bed. He turns over onto his back when Oswald drops his work onto the edge of the bed. When Oswald spares him a second glance he finds Ed smirking up at him; his half lidded eyes tone down how smug Ed's being, but only just.

“Don't act like you've used some great negotiating power to get me to join you. I'm allowed to be comfortable while I get work done.” And he plans to be; Oswald strips down to his dress pants and an undershirt before he pulls back the many layers of blankets and sheets and eases himself onto the bed. He props himself up with several pillows, and once he's satisfied with his arrangement he drags the stack of papers onto his lap and gets to work. Somewhere between a follow up letter from his physician and a flier from his newest political opponent he finds Ed’s head resting against his good hip.

“He polls very-,” Ed clears his throat- “promisingly, with the young crowd.” There’s a long pause as he pops his jaw. “but they are notoriously absent on election days.”

Oswald sets the flier aside and moves a hand to Ed’s hair, petting the space just behind his ear. “I’m going to need a few innovative ideas to cement my lead. Maybe something to steal away those precious young voters of his.”

“Simple.” He lets out a low hum when Oswald switches to running his fingers through his hair. “Or,” he sighs, “should be.” He rolls a bit and dislodges Oswald’s hand in the process. “I played piano.”

“Oh?” Oswald pats a hand on Ed’s chest. “If I’m not mistaken I would have sworn that was something you already remembered.”

“For you,” he clarifies. “I did-” his face goes slack and Oswald waits for Ed to return from whatever place he’s slipped into; he doesn’t have to wait long. “Several times. And we sang.”

“We did,” he confirms. “That was several years ago, before I ever even considered becoming the mayor.” He watches the way Ed’s fingers tremble against his own chest, although the longer he watches the more conscious the movement appears. “The Lounge has a piano, you know. You’re welcome to play.” His fingers stop moving; a few lines of tension form on his face, and he closes his eyes. Oswald returns his attention to his mail while Ed processes the new information for a few minutes.

“No.”

“Hm?” Oswald closes the paper and sets it on the bedside table.

“Not-” he sucks in a deep breath and rolls, flopping one heavy arm across Oswald’s lap. “There. Not there.”

“Fine,” Oswald sighs. He moves the proposals off his lap, choosing to ignore them for another day and moving so he’s only partially propped up by pillows. “I’ll make you a deal. If you can manage to streamline the delivery process for my empire I’ll look into getting something smaller for the penthouse.”


End file.
